The Riverwoman's Dragon

By Candace Robb

When the wise woman Magda Digby is suspected of murder, Owen Archer sets out to prove her innocence in this intricately plotted medieval mystery.
May, 1375. Owen Archer returns from London to find York in chaos. While the citizens are living in terror of the pestilence which is spreading throughout the land, a new physician has arrived, whipping up fear and suspicion against traditional healers and midwives. With the backing of the new archbishop, he is especially hostile towards Magda Digby, the wise woman who has helped and healed the people of York for many years. At the same time, Magda is uneasy about the arrival of two long-lost kinsfolk. Though they say they are seeking her help, she senses a hidden agenda.
Magda’s troubles deepen when she discovers a body in the river near her home – and finds herself under suspicion of murder. Days later, fire rips through a warehouse in the city. Amongst the charred debris lies the body of a man – not burned, but stabbed in the back. Could there be a connection to the corpse in the river?
Determined to prove Magda’s innocence, Owen sets out to find answers – but the more he uncovers, the deeper the mystery becomes . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781448305636

Candace Robb

Candace Robb has read and researched medieval history for many years, having studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval & Anglo-Saxon Literature. She divides her time between Seattle and the UK, frequently visiting York to research the series. She is the author of twelve previous Owen Archer mysteries, three Kate Clifford medieval mysteries, and the Margaret Kerr trilogy.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

York, late April 1375

As the days lengthened and the pale green leaves of early spring, delicate as an infant’s fingers and toes, swelled to complete the forest canopy, a cruel visitor wound its way north along the roads and the waterways, sowing fear and sorrow. All knew of its coming, for it had called on a few unsuspecting households near York in the golden light of August past. The two youngest Wolcotts, an infant and a toddler, had succumbed. The manqualm taking the most precious members of a family disrupted the balance of affections. But Magda Digby had sensed trouble brewing among them long before, the Death merely coaxing out the poison. Other families were touched as well – children, parents, elders. All knew that it was merely a taste of what was to come as summer returned. The pattern was known: warm weather ripened it until it burst forth, spreading its seed. All were wary, looking for scapegoats on whom to hang the blame.

Memory of the first visitation stirred a deep, ancient fear in the folk that lay dormant in good times, a fear of the Riverwoman’s healing skill. For she was ever the outsider, the wise woman living just beyond the city wall, on a rock in the Ouse guarded by a dragon. She blamed no one for the shunning, having known the risk when she chose her path. Born of a long line of healing women on the moors who served their community with ancient roots in the wild hills, she had been raised to follow in their footsteps. And then, in the midst of a year of disasters, a shabby friar intruded on their peace, his beady eyes slithering and twitching as he preached of a vengeful god who would continue to punish them with sicknesses that thinned their flocks and disastrous summer rains that ruined their crops until they cast out the healers and wise women, worshippers of Satan, daughters of Lucifer.

Neither Magda nor any of her kin knew of such a being as this Satan or Lucifer, much less worshipped him, yet one by one, household by household, the folk turned on the healers, threatening to burn them all unless the women set aside their evil practices. It was a choice between what the friar called the dragon, Satan, and the lamb, the Christian god. Magda was confused – the god he described sounded far more the dragon than the lamb, and he seemed indifferent to the welfare of his ‘children’ – but her questions were received as attacks and she was cursed for them. All the while the slovenly, corpulent snake slithered through the community, forcing himself on the young women. Magda was ready for him, burning the arm that reached for her with a red-hot knife. For that she was ordered to submit to whatever punishment he commanded for her penance.

Magda chose banishment, walking off into the forests to the north, where she lived a long while in a community who practiced the old ways in peace. The only dragon they knew of was wise and fierce, a powerful protection. In time she returned south for the sake of a child longing for her brother. But she kept to her path of healing, ever wary of Churchmen, especially in times of loss when their worship of a god of vengeance separated folk from their own wisdom about the earth and their own bodies. She would bide her time, ready to depart if truly threatened. Over the years she learned that eventually the clerics grew so fearful they bolted their doors against the community, and then the folk remembered how she’d helped them in the past, once more seeking her aid.

For now, as she exited Bootham Bar in a soft rain, she bid the city farewell. The poor were her priority, particularly those living without the walls of the city and in the forest of Galtres. The city inhabitants were well served by physicians, barbers, and midwives, but the poor had only her.

The line to enter the city straggled out past the walls of St Mary’s Abbey. Bedraggled, already weary, many having risen long before dawn to make the trek, the folk stood in small clusters, eyeing the others with unease. They searched for signs of illness, fearing this might be the day the manqualm walked among them. The fear would be stronger in the throng at Micklegate Bar, on the King’s road from the south, where the Death already wakened.

ONE

A Dragon, a Raven, a Newcomer

York, mid May 1375

Water was her element, despite the fiery reputation. In the liminal light of late evening she played in the River Ouse, leaving a trail of silver droplets as she arched and dove, reemerging from the peat-brown water, shaking her head, arching and diving once more, circling the rock that had been her home this long while. The ease, the grace, the joy of movement reminded Magda Digby of a time when her own body sliced through chilly waters alongside the most beautiful man she had ever known. She followed the happy memory as a scent on the wind and a taste of salt in the brown water signaled the turning of the tide in the loamy water of the Ouse. Until the gentle splash of an oar called her back to her seat in the doorway of her home on the rocky island in the Ouse. Slipping back onto the roof, the dragon gave one more shake, droplets raining down on Magda, and resumed her watch.

A coracle emerged from the fog thrown up by the dragon play. Magda wondered whether it would be Sten. For why else the recent tidal wave of memories? But he had doubtless died of old age years ago. Their son? She walked to the edge of the rock, calling to the passenger to toss her the line. As she secured it on the stake driven into the rock she noted that the river lad’s companion was too short to be Sten. Their son? Grandson? There must be a reason Sten haunted her dreams. But as he turned to toss the line she saw that her visitor had nothing to do with her distant past.

It was Sam Toller, Guthlac Wolcott’s factor, or agent for trade, his face creased with worry as he disembarked. She might guess that at last old Guthlac had let go the incompetent leech attending him and sent for her but that Sam pulsed with fear for himself, his family … and her. Perhaps the leech had stirred up more trouble? Or was she sensing Sam’s fear of the pestilence? Both, most likely.

‘I will wait for you here, Master Toller,’ the lad called.

Sam lifted a hand to acknowledge him and followed Magda to the house. He crossed himself as he passed beneath the stern visage of the dragon, then hastened across the threshold.

‘Hast thou news of thy daughter’s baby?’ Magda asked. Several weeks earlier she had guided the young wife through a long, difficult delivery, her firstborn, pitifully small with a mewling cry that bespoke a weak heart. Magda had stayed with mother and infant in their home in the north of the forest of Galtres for several nights until her husband returned from taking goods to market.

‘No. No news from Mary,’ said Sam. ‘But here.’ He thrust a small money pouch toward her. ‘She would want you to have this.’

Though Magda sensed his relief in the gesture, his shallow breathing indicated an accompanying unease. Mary might approve, but that was not her father’s purpose in coming, nor was this his or his daughter’s money. ‘Many thanks for this generous offering,’ she said. ‘Come, sit down, warm thyself.’ She drew him to a bench near the fire, poured him a bowl of ale, and handed it to him as she settled so that she might see his face in the firelight.

He tasted it, then took a longer drink. ‘Bless you. I needed this.’ He stared at the fire, his gaze taking on a faraway quality.

‘With the sickness threatening the city, thy mistress will be reminded of her little ones,’ said Magda. She spoke of Beatrice, the young wife of his employer, Guthlac Wolcott, for whom Sam harbored a strong affection. The Wolcotts’ young son and infant daughter had died of the pestilence at the end of the past summer.

Sam nodded. ‘And Guthlac’s health is failing. Yet he was hale and hardy in winter. How is it that no one speaks of what is so plain, that he began to fail the moment the leech Bernard appeared? God forgive me, but I blame Guthlac’s son for this.’ Gavin, the old merchant’s son and heir, born of an earlier marriage, a few years older than his father’s young wife and rumored to have no affection for her. ‘You would not know the old man now.’

‘Alisoun told Magda of his decline.’ Her apprentice had been shocked by the elderly Wolcott’s condition when she saw him on the street leaning heavily on the arms of his wife and a manservant. So much change in the fortnight since Magda had been in the city was indeed cause for concern. Alisoun was at present assisting in Lucie Wilton’s shop while the apothecary accompanied her husband Owen Archer to London on royal business. For convenience she was lodging in the couple’s home.

‘She must have seen him on one of his last outings,’ said Sam. ‘He no longer leaves his bed.’ He crossed himself.

‘Is it concern for thine employer that furrows thy brow?’

‘Yes, but— In truth, at present it is my concern for you. I came to warn you that the leech Bernard means you harm. He has poisoned the hearts of Guthlac and his son Gavin against you. I pray you, do not come into the city.’

‘Magda has no thought to do so. With the sickness surrounding the city she will be busy with the poor and the folk of Galtres. But rest easy, the leech Bernard will not have the leisure to think of Magda.’

‘They say Bernard demands such a high fee that few in the city can afford his services.’

‘The desperate will do so.’ She heard a timid knock on the door. ‘That will be the lad waiting with the coracle.’

‘My wife is grateful for all that you did for our daughter.’ A gentle lie, for his wife Gemma resented charity of money or spirit spent outside her home. But Sam was a kind man accustomed to compensating for his wife’s sharpness.

Magda escorted him to the door and watched as the lad rowed him back, skillfully maneuvering against the current of the outgoing tide. He was of an age with the others who assisted her, seven or eight winters, strengthened by the rowing and other work, on the cusp of being sent away from home to seek his way in the world. Her brave lads. She paid them well.

It was a busy evening on the bank. Magda noticed a man standing upstream from the spot where Sam would disembark, watching her. She had sensed this person often of late, sometimes accompanied by another, but not tonight. Another pair of watchers stood closer to the landing but farther from the bank. Hostile, menacing, but watching the coracle, not her. It seemed Sam Toller had cause to be ill at ease. She watched until he disembarked and walked away without incident.

Once alone Magda tucked the pouch of coins in a hidden place so that it might be safe until she decided who needed it most, then resumed the chopping of roots to add later to what was left of the coney stew. She was about to serve herself when Alisoun appeared, pausing in the doorway, eyes closed, inhaling, her exhale a long sigh of release.

‘Thou art troubled,’ said Magda. ‘What news from the city?’

‘A woman in All Saints parish has died of the sickness the morning after returning from her sister’s home to the south. Her husband burned all that was in their bedchamber. But God watches over them. Neither he nor the children have taken ill.’

All Saints parish lay in the center of York. ‘They have not been attacked for fear they carry the sickness?’

‘No. It is not like that this time – or not yet.’ Alisoun bent over the pot to sniff. ‘Mmm.’

‘Thou art welcome to sup with Magda.’ Kate, Owen and Lucie’s housekeeper, would feed her well, but her apprentice was fond of coney stew.

‘Gladly.’ Alisoun set her basket on the worktable, lifting out a loaf of bread. ‘Kate sent this. And I bought this for you.’ She set a jug on the worktable. ‘Tom Merchet’s ale.’ The owner of the York Tavern next to the apothecary brewed the finest ale in the north.

‘Many thanks. A bowl of the ale, then stew?’

They settled by the fire, speaking of their days, small matters, news of shared acquaintances. Alisoun’s blushes told Magda that she was enjoying her close work with Lucie’s son and apprentice, Jasper. The two had declared their love for each other several years earlier, but they were often at odds, she easily believing herself betrayed, he withdrawing into himself when uncertain of his path. It was good they were at peace for now. Yet something troubled the young woman. After some hesitation, she came to the point.

‘There is yet another new healer in the city,’ said Alisoun. ‘A woman. And the leech Bernard has turned several of our customers against us.’

‘Sam Toller spoke of him, warning Magda to stay away.’

‘I saw Sam glancing over his shoulder as he was rowed to the bank, peering into the twilight as if sensing trouble.’

‘But he departed safely?’

‘Yes, of course. Who would wish him harm?’

‘Magda noticed a pair watching him. She could not see who they were.’

Alisoun nodded absently.

‘What dost thou know about this new healer?’ asked Magda.

Alisoun drank a little of her ale, cleared her throat, and looked at a corner of the room rather than Magda. ‘A gray-haired woman, tall, walking with a cane. I have seen her on the street, not in the apothecary. She does not seem friendly. Folk say she is from Lincoln, or Peterborough, or from up on the moors. Ned Cooper says she is attending his mother since his father forbade her to come to you.’ The young man worked for Owen Archer, captain of the city bailiffs.

‘Magda is glad to hear that she has sought a healer.’ Some women transitioned out of their childbearing years with a gradual easing of the monthly cycle, a slow cessation, hardly noticed until it was gone. But such was not the lot of Ned’s mother, Celia. For the past year she had endured weeks of bleeding, an unfortunate, not uncommon way a woman’s body adjusted to the changing season of life. ‘Is she in much distress?’

‘The long bleeding comes more frequently, weakening her.’

‘This new healer is helping?’

‘Ned thinks not. He says her potions sicken Dame Celia, flushing away what little food she has managed to eat. And while she sits at his mother’s bedside the healer draws images in charcoal on paper that fill his mother with unease and give her bad dreams.’

‘What frightens her about them?’ Magda asked. She began to understand Alisoun’s unease.

‘He brought a few to show me, to see whether I agreed. There is something about them. They seem to change. Grow. I did not find them frightening, but strange.’ Alisoun handed Magda a page crowded with images, creatures and plants intertwining, spreading, twisting, seeming to grow out of the drawing and into the room.

It was as she had suspected. ‘Magda has seen such images before.’ She handed back the paper. ‘Why art thou reluctant to say her name?’

‘But I—’

‘Was it Jasper who told thee?’

Alisoun blushed. ‘I heard a rumor that she is your daughter Asa. Then I asked Jasper and he said he had heard she made no secret of it. But as you have not spoken of her—’

‘When did she arrive?’

‘I think about the time you left the city.’

Magda thought back to a gray-haired woman supporting herself on a cane. She had seen her from behind and felt a tug. But so faint.

‘She has not come to you?’ Alisoun asked.

‘No. Art thou worried she will supplant thee?’

‘She is family.’

‘She would prefer it were not so.’

‘Then why come to York?’

‘Magda does not know. But thou needst not fear. Thou art more daughter to Magda than Asa has ever been. This is thy home as long as thou wishes it.’ She rose to fetch the stew, giving her apprentice a moment to regain her composure.

While they ate, Magda led the conversation toward the proper seasoning of a coney stew and the items Alisoun should put aside in the shop for her next assignment.

Afterward, while sharing a touch of brandywine, Alisoun returned to Celia Cooper, concerned that Ned’s father, learning that Asa was Magda’s daughter, had threatened to replace her with the leech Bernard. ‘Ned has seen Guthlac Wolcott’s decline and warned his father against him, but the man is stubborn,’ said Alisoun.

Edwin Cooper was the worst of hypocrites, spouting pious nonsense and loudly condemning others for their sins while bedding the maidservants and casting them out when they became pregnant. Magda knew of this from young women who had worked in his household and come seeking her help.

‘Ned might suggest that his mother ask to go to St Clement’s Priory,’ said Magda. ‘The infirmarian has experience with women of Celia’s age. She would be safe and well cared for.’

‘Why would Edwin Cooper agree to that?’

‘Is the young woman with the red hair still serving in the household? If so, he will feel free to be with her.’

‘I see. But is that not a cruel use of her?’

‘This one is wise to his ways and uses him to her purpose,’ said Magda.

Alisoun considered for a moment. ‘I will tell Ned.’

Only as Alisoun rose to depart did she speak again of Asa. ‘She claims to be a healer. Did you train her?’

‘No. Asa believed she should be able to heal without the long study. She believed that as it was in her blood her mother must be punishing her by instructing her to study and observe, that she was hiding the craft from her. She was ever impatient with a world that did not bend to her idea of how it should be.’

‘Much like me when I first came to you.’

Magda laughed. ‘There were echoes, yes. But that was long ago and thou hast come far.’

When she was alone Magda returned to the fact that she had not sensed Asa’s presence in the city, nor had she recognized her on the street. She wondered how that connected to her rush of memories of Sten. Their children were the twins Yrsa and Odo. Asa had a different father. Was the other, more frequent watcher somehow connected to Sten? She was now quite certain it was Asa who sometimes joined him. But how would they have met? Sten and the twins had been long gone from Magda’s life when she met Asa’s father Digby. Stepping outside, she settled beneath the dragon and let the quiet of the night calm her. Only then did she go to bed.

Just before dawn the cry of an owl wakened her, its claws scratching along the roof. After a long pause, it took flight. No more sleep for her. As Magda prepared her basket of healing remedies for the day’s visits she considered who might have died in the night. But by day’s end she had heard nothing to explain the portent.

Several days passed without news of the death of which the owl had warned. Magda let it be. Nothing to do until the prophecy came clear. She continued to be curious about her watchers. The one most often about was male, she sensed cautious interest. And she was now quite certain his occasional companion was Asa, wary and angry. Whether the man was also kin she could not tell, but after sensing him she often thought of Sten. That, too, she let be. Her days were busy, and that would be so through the summer. When Lucie Wilton returned to her apothecary, likely within a fortnight, Alisoun would move on to Lucie’s family manor in the countryside south of York to care for the couple’s children, who would remain there until the manqualm quieted in York. It would ease the minds of the couple to have a competent healer in the household should the Death find the manor. Magda was happy for Alisoun to go, but her absence meant she would continue to care for folk outside the city by herself. Just yesterday a family north of Easingwold had been struck, an infant sickening in the morning, dead by nightfall. The news spread quickly. Magda had learned of it as she began her rounds.

In late afternoon, with her physicks dispensed, roots and herbs gathered, Magda turned toward home. But she did not hurry. The warmth of the day enfolded her in a pleasurable caress, inviting her to stray off the path here and there in search of tender shoots she might have missed. A cluster of coltsfoot in the ruins of an old shed rewarded her. Humming to herself and absorbed in harvesting the bright plants, she did not feel the weather shift until the wind whipped her skirts about her legs as she turned back toward the forest track. A briny wind. Glancing up, she saw the canopy of trees being whipped by the gusts, though there was blue sky beyond. Clear now, but not for long.

Caw! A beady eye studied her from an overhanging branch. Caw! Caw! Raven. When Asa was a child, Raven had watched out for her. Caw! With a ruffling of feathers, the bird rose to the sky just visible through the woodland canopy. Magda quickened her pace, all temptation to step off the path in search of plants gone with the wind and the raven.

By the time Magda emerged from beneath the cover of trees into the fields before the abbey walls, clouds chased the blue westward, chilling the air. Caw! Caw! Raven tacked into the wind. Tucking the basket beneath her cloak, Magda continued to the riverbank opposite her home. One of the lads hailed her, offering to row her to the rock.

‘Magda will go by foot,’ she said. The tide was coming in, but it was not yet so high. ‘Take thyself home. Shelter from the storm.’ She tucked her skirts up into her girdle and put her shoes in her basket.

Caw!

She crossed over the shallow water using the smooth river stones pressed into the mud to afford a reasonably dry walkway. Once on the rocky outcrop she paused, watching Raven fight against the sharp east wind to at last alight on her dragon. Raven’s battle with the storm reminded Magda of her daughter; so Asa had ever been, fighting against the elements, against anything.

Gazing out over the water, Raven fluffed her feathers, turning one eye, then the other on the Ouse, where the storm whipped the incoming tide into a boiling surge from the sea. Caw! Caw!

‘Is Asa threatened by the storm?’

Raven did not respond.

Nor did Magda sense that her daughter waited within the house. Shaking out her skirts, she took shelter in her snug home.

All night wind and rain battered the house while the fire within snapped and chuckled, the varied woods in conversation. Now and then Magda dipped her finger in a cup of goat’s milk and fed it to the kitten curled up in a basket on the edge of the table, the runt of a litter who had been handed to her by a young girl when she returned at midday. Magda had been given the goat’s milk in payment just hours before. Nature’s balance. Hungrier now, mewing for more, the kitten wobbled about in the basket, her gray, tan, and white asymmetrical markings reminding Magda of her own patchwork clothing.

‘Thou’rt eager to thrive, little one,’ Magda murmured. The kitten rubbed its head against her hand. The child would not return, her family would forbid it. No matter. A home would be found. ‘Thou hast a good appetite.’ From a shelf she plucked an old cloth glove that was missing several fingers. With a snip, it lost another. Filling it with some milk, she held it to the tiny mouth. The makeshift nipple was soon suckled dry. ‘Enough for now.’

Magda settled to work, humming as she ground nuts and roots for a broth that sustained her when busy, kept in a small jug she carried with her as she traveled in her donkey cart to the farthest reaches of Galtres, her primary visitation routes. The cart and donkey were a treasured gift from Old Crow, the late John Thoresby, Archbishop of York. Her good friend in the end. He had not always been so.

A neighbor kept the cart and donkey for her, and when Alisoun was not available to groom Nip, her name for the ever-hungry being, the neighbor’s daughter did so. For her, Magda prepared a tisane to ease the child’s tremors, the result of a head injury when young. As the girl grew and explored the world the tremors were easing, but not yet gone, and she hid from the world in fear that folk would think her cursed or possessed by a devil. Foolish ideas from the same source as made some folk fearful of Magda’s skills as a healer. The Church taught intolerance for the mysteries that did not serve it, and the people suffered. Turning her mind back to the child, Magda added angelica for sweetness.

A gust of wind found the chink between the door and the sill, sending the fire dancing. The kitten mewed. Magda found her trembling, and after feeding her another nipple full of the goat’s milk she tucked her in her basket bed and softly sang as she stroked her asleep. Despite the storm, a peaceful moment, an evening of contentment. When she had prepared all that she needed for the next day’s planned visitations, Magda lifted the kitten from her basket and held her on her lap while enjoying a cup of spiced wine in the fire’s warmth. As they sat, the kitten purring, Magda’s thoughts drifted to Wicket, the kitten with whom she’d slept as a small child, the being with whom she’d shared her dreams, her fears, her secrets. ‘Perhaps thou hast come to share Magda’s bed once more?’ Setting aside her empty cup, Magda sprinkled sand over the fire so that it would die down, and slipped into bed with the kitten.

As she drifted off to sleep she sensed Raven on her shoulder, whispering of another who had slept with kittens long ago, and other small beings she would spend the day drawing. Flowers also Asa had drawn, covering

Reviews for The Riverwoman's Dragon

[Gladys Burgess · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Always a great tale by writer Candace Robb. The obvious research put in to the telling is a gift for all readers of her tales of Owen Archer.

[eyes92c · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

1375 Medieval MysteryWhat can I say! Forever I’ve been fascinated by Magda Digby, the Riverwoman, her dedication, her wisdom, her insights. More than other characters she’s called to me. So fitting to have a story devoted to Magda, skilled healer, reliever of suffering, attuned to the impossible, and mentor to Owen Archer. Two of my favourite medieval characters.Magda’s daughter Asa has returned to York. Impatient , greedy for knowledge, Asa has blamed Magda for her own shortcomings with her healing abilities. She has brought with her Einor, a cousin. One whom Magda sees possibilities for if he can overcome his greed.The mystic aspect of Magda is grounded in the forest and the river. She lives outside of York. Available to those who seek her, yet far enough away to be not too caught up in the action of those who believe her a witch. The ordinary folk watch over Magda. One must take a coracle to reach her. Magda’s house is an upturned boat in the middle of the River Ouse with a dragon carving over the door. A dragon that protects our pagan healer. A dragon she connects with. Indeed as she reflects on things, Robb gives us a gorgeous insight into Magda’s thoughts. “ Eyes closed, Magda was one with her dragon, diving into the rich brown water, welcoming the flow against her skin, her hair riding the currents, replenishing body, heart, and mind… Magda sought release, racing through the waters, spinning, leaping, diving, one with her dragon.” Owen Archer sometimes catches a glimpse of that tie.“ Turning back toward the house, Magda touched the dragon’s head, and for a moment it was as if the two became one, woman and dragon, completing each other, a being of fire and water, her scales aglow, hovering in the air, then gracefully diving into the river, but also Magda the woman Owen had always sensed, a warrior woman but with wise eyes that drew him in, clearing his mind of doubt.“It’s a time of pestilence. Plague is marching North. A physician, a leech, Bernard has spoken out against the healers and midwives. He’s fixed his eyes on Magda for poisoning opinion against her. The cleric Dom Jerome appears to be supporting Bernard. Who will help the poorer of the community? Magda has been accused of sickening a merchant and causing his factor’s death. Suspicion combined with religious fervour is ugly. Owen is investigating. Somehow Asa is caught up in this focus on Magda.It’s also a time for Owen to pay attention to his gifts. His ability to see what others can’t. Blind in one eye Captain Owen Archer has become more aware of nuances.Archer and Brother Michaelo have their hands full trying to handle people’s fears about the plague, an unexplained death, the firing up of the populace by a suspicious leecher, and theft.There’s movements within movements at work here. Greed, evil and death stalk the folk of York. Magda does what she can. As does Archer.A superb blend of mystery, pestilence and mysticism.A Canongate Severn House ARC via NetGalley Please note: Quotes taken from an advanced reading copy maybe subject to change